


Collateral Damage

by Lochinvar



Series: Hobo and Karma [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Humor, Attempt at Humor, BAMF Sam Winchester, Canon Divergence, Castiel (Supernatural)'s Loss of Grace, Comfort, First Blade, Fixing the Canon, Food Porn, Friendship, Gen, Gets Lighter, Knives, Magic, Mark of Cain, Mean Girls References, Men of Letters Bunker, Monsters, Movie tropes, Nightmares, No Smut, Protective Castiel, Protective Sam Winchester, Revenge, Season/Series 10, Series, Sick Castiel, Sick Dean Winchester, Sick Sam Winchester, Slice of Life, Spirits, Starts A Little Dark, Supernatural Procedural, Team Free Will, Tropes, no one dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-19
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2019-02-04 08:11:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12766764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lochinvar/pseuds/Lochinvar
Summary: The events leading up to Sam having a meltdown in suburban Kansas City, Kansas. With pointy things. Instigated by the Mark. And Dean’s trying to cope. Castiel is a bemused spectator.Caution: Food Porn ahead. And Dean in paisley boxers.This first chapter is more serious. Nothing horrible. Story lightens up.





	1. Made in Lebanon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Linden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linden/gifts), [InTheGreySpaces](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InTheGreySpaces/gifts).



> The events are set during the period when Dean was trying to cope with the Mark and before anyone knew what it was. The Mark is affecting Sam as well. And Castiel is surviving with borrowed Grace and is slowly dying, but hasn’t told the brothers as yet. Have tweaked the timeline and some events to suit my whims.
> 
> Prologue to upcoming piece: Hobo and Karma. Which change these notes when it is posted.
> 
> As a thank-you to Linden and InTheGreySpaces for some great meals. Both are wonderful writers (and human beings) and awesome cooks. Linden taught me about Sam's skills with knives. InTheGreySpaces inspires me to write faster (wink). Inspires me, but not yet successful.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean is not the only person being affected by the Mark.

Sam felt heartened once his older brother reluctantly agreed to stay away from situations with the potential to escalate, meaning he would stop actively hunting while he carried the Mark.

Sam privately confessed to Castiel that chasing cases with Dean since he took on the ancient Curse had been like driving with bald tires on a potholed county road. With a live grenade in one pocket and a hair-triggered flare gun in the other.

But, even at the Bunker, without the need to be watching Dean constantly, Sam was under pressure. He was having nightmares every night. Actually, he was having the same nightmare–of Dean triggering his own bloody Ragnarök with piles of bodies everywhere, of Dean killing Sam, and of Sam having to see the pain in Dean’s eyes as the older Hunter comes to his senses too late and realizes what he has done. The look on Dean’s face in the nightmares hurt Sam worse than the physical pain of being ripped apart by his brother.

(Yes, you aren’t supposed to feel real pain in dreams. Tell that to Sam.)

And then he would wake up crying. Every night.

Sam also was running more, at the same level of intensity of Olympic athletes practicing for marathons and triathlons. Working off the stress and anxiety of the Mark-induced nightmares and his concerns about Dean. Every day. Compensating for his lack of sleep by building strength and endurance. Trying to tire himself out so he could sleep through the night.

Using advice he garnered from Old World Lore regarding both roads (the ones built on ley lines and natural boundaries) and running water being free of supernatural influences (something that Chuck forgot (???) in his stories about the brothers), Sam stayed within the boundaries of beaten paths next to small active streams and irrigation ditches and larger washes, those dry husks of forgotten river beds that fill after storms. Abandoned railroad tracks with their old iron rails were naturally warded as well.

He ignored the sights and sounds that ghosted at the periphery of his consciousness. Things more primeval than ghosts and werewolves haunted the fields and forests from dusk until dawn and stood as sentinels along his routes in daylight. Their numbers were increasing.

Sam began to lose muscle as his metabolic rate increased. His body was eating itself like a Leviathan accountant being punished for the late filing of a quarterly tax report.

His official diagnosis? Anorexia Athletica. He looked it up. But he kept running.

Castiel knew what was happening to the younger Hunter, but was battling his own loss of Grace. And, Dean, for the first time in his life, was too sunk in his own misery to notice that his baby brother was wasting away.

\------

One long-standing stereotype that uninformed observers have maintained about the Winchester was and is that _Sam Researches_ and _Dean Kills_. If the boys were stars of their own television show, these same observers would have named it _The Professor and The Gunman._ But Sam and Dean are brothers with more in common than a fashion statement based on whatever species of plaid flannel was on sale in Heartland truck stops after deer season.

The more complicated truth was that, just like Dean, Sam was a dead shot and even more skilled with a blade than his awesome big brother. Pretty much at the _Marvel Superhero Eagle Scout Badge_ level.

Regarding research? Well, yes, Sam was the King of the Bunker’s dust-imbued collection of ancient tomes, the ones that smell of abandoned abbeys (but not in the good way), and of Dark Web encrypted files.

On the other hand, Dean knew best how to dig into hometown papers and coax unexpected details from gossipy farmers at the local _Sticky Bun and Fried Steak-and-Eggs Nic-Nak-Nook_ (5 am to 1 pm, Monday through Saturday, brunch menu on Sundays only, which means cake in addition to pie and pork chops in addition to the bone-in rib eye and eggs “your way”), during a lingering, post tractor-in-the-field breakfast.

Later, after lunch, Sam would enthrall the equally gossipy old ladies he would hunt down in the town’s general store, asking advice about the best way to ripen store-bought tomatoes–a tried-and-true strategy for winning their trust. His deep-dimpled smile didn’t hurt his cause nor did a voice like amber honey, poured slow. (They are _old_ ladies, not _dead_ ladies.)

\-----

Dean was a kick the tires, kick down the door, pulp novel hero who followed his gut (and heart), aka Batman. Castiel still believes that Dean’s marrow-deep intuitive and inarticulate “knowing” was a key reason that he successfully fought off the influence of the Mark as long as he had.

The downside of Dean’s all-hands-on-deck approach to hunting and life in general? He needed to take physical action to feel in control. Like a finely crafted engine, the green-eyed Hunter was designed to be well-used–he was a hard worker and reveled in the Family Business–and well-maintained–with Hunter’s Helper, adult companionship, and pie. The Mark was keeping Dean from doing the things that made him Dean, draining his humanity as it continued its spiritual harassment. Removing his choices so that only one choice would remain.

The family business? As mentioned before, mostly on hold. Sam and Castiel kept Dean on lockdown in the Bunker except for short trips to buy groceries or run errands, always accompanied by one or both of his unofficial watchdogs. The brother and angel couldn’t risk hunting trips with Dean, because the dark energy of the Mark fed Dean’s unpredictable fits of violence and increased the probability of civilian casualties, putting the entire team at risk.

Sam took on small, nearby cases, but mostly he stayed at home, studying the Bunker’ collection of one-of-a-kind Lore books and journals and monitoring the continual assault on his brother’s will. And running for hours alongside sandy arroyos and abandoned railroad tracks in rural Kansas cattle and wheat country.

Adult beverages? Sam and Castiel knew better than to demand Dean stop drinking entirely. However, alcohol no longer helped him forget…anything.

Dean never told brother and angel that the more he drank, the more the Mark whispered in his ear of the pleasures of giving into the blood lust of the Curse. The constant fear that Cain’s prophesy would be realized became a strong disincentive.

He tapered off on his own, cutting back to the consumption level of a frat boy with a healthy liver. The Bunker’s liquor bill dropped, and even Sam was surprised how much more cash was in the bank (meaning in the canvas and leather pouch he hid under his layers of shirts and tees).

Adult companionship was a dicey proposition; the Mark’s twisted take on carnal relations made dating problematic, meaning painful and ultimately sad. Even Dean’s responses to the companionable and good-humored porn offered up by Casa Erotica became tinged with sorrow and a lurking desire to hurt.

Pie? Neither Sam nor Dean had much of an appetite. Castiel stuck with peanut butter on white toast.

\----

Dean needed an outlet for all that Dean energy and a distraction from the Mark’s power. Research was proving futile, and more and more Dean was hiding in his bedroom behind a sonic wall of heavy metal blasting through his headphones. When he ventured out he armored himself with the fixed cheerfulness of a terminal patient protecting his family from inevitable bad news.

For Sam and Castiel, it was like watching, over the turn of the seasons, the healthy bark cracking open on a beloved but ailing tree, revealing dead and damaged tissue down to the heartwood.

\-----

Half-dozing while watching a cable show about cheap decorating fixes to make windowless basement rooms look more spacious and less depressing (Castiel was taking copious notes), Dean had his epiphany. Something that could take his mind off the Mark and channel his energy into something good. (And it worked. For a time.) It was respite.  
  
Thus the birth of (drumroll)… _Bunker Dean: Domestic Diva._

Who would have guessed that home economics had the power to sooth the First Curse? (Cain’s beekeeping should have been a clue.) The results?

First, every millimeter of Baby was cleaned and polished and waxed; she shone like a minor sun, radiating the innocent sex appeal of a World War II pin-up girl.

Dean also tuned all of the classic cars in the Bunker’s spacious garage to Monaco Grand Prix competitive standards.

The common rooms of the Bunker for the rest of the Age of the Mark, except for the destructive incidents at the end of its existence, were spotless. The woodwork, crafted of holy English oak and black walnut, was burnished with lamb’s wool mitts dabbed with homemade furniture polish, which Dean conjured up from a recipe on an online DIY site. The maple wood flooring glowed even in low light.

However, Dean (and Sam and Castiel) stayed away from the deep warren of locked rooms, closets, and cupboards that stretched into dusty infinity down to Kansas bedrock. Jimmy Novak may be in heaven, but his vessel, thoroughly integrated with Castiel’s remaining borrowed Grace, had its own primordial awareness of danger. The hairs on the back of its neck stood at attention when the angel first tried to navigate beyond the main hallway, adjoining passageways, and storage areas. Its “canary in the coal mine” early warning system had been enough to keep Dean, his brother, and his Angel close to the familiar core of the bunker, at least for now.  
  
And the fact that the Mark had seemed to _want_ Dean to wander into the _Lost World_ of shadows and odd murmurs and creaks and the taint of _Things Dead and Gone_ was enough to corral Dean’s impulse to explore.

\-----

The next phase was even better.


	2. What We Do For Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Food porn and everyone is happy. Pure fluff. The Mark is subdued for now.
> 
> Oh, and a little car porn that does not involve Baby. Not porn in cars, mind you. Just car-lover fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am actually not a foodie. More like a food voyeur.
> 
> Regarding cars, gift me a cherry 1956, two-toned, Adobe Beige/Sierra Gold Chevy Bel Air, and I am yours.

Sam, after returning from a late night salt-and-burn across the border in Nebraska, had gone straight to his room and was turning down his bed before a light supper, quick shower, and happy oblivion. He noticed that his sheets and pillowcases were feeling…different. Huh. Reminded him of those annual trips to Las Vegas from another lifetime. He could see they were the same striped linens he had purchased at a rummage sale in Hays, Kansas for pennies on the dollar. But now they felt… _nice._ And they smelt good.

Maybe Castiel did the laundry. He took his turn along with the brothers. He liked to watch the spinning drums in the Bunker’s massive, industrial-grade washing machines and dryers, designed to remove the worst of monster offal from a battalion’s load of Hunter gear. And he liked to experiment with different laundry soaps.

Had to remember to thank him.

On his way to pilfer fruit and yogurt from the Bunker’s kitchen before heading to the showers, Sam saw a light shining from Dean’s room through the hinged edge of the slightly ajar door.

Sam assumed that Dean fell asleep reading, waiting for Sam to return. He smiled at his brother’s typical act of devotion and decided he would sneak into the room _carefully_ –one does not wake up a Winchester any other way–and depending on what he discovered, at the least click off his lamp.

Sam silently pushed open the bedroom door. And caution was forgotten as he gasped his brother’s name in horror. Dean was awake, standing with his back to the door, barefoot and dressed only in an obscenely thin pair of paisley-print boxers. (Dean liked the retro clothing that lurked in the abandoned dresser drawers and closets of the Men of Letters’ Kansas outpost.)

He didn’t hear Sam, because his earphones were plugged into an ancient eight-track tape machine, playing a cassette from Baby’s stash of golden oldies. He was swaying and singing along to _God Only Knows,_ the Beach Boys’ iconic hymn, the one that wrapped around our hearts at the end of _Love, Actually._

And Dean was ironing a pillowcase. A _flowered_ pillowcase.

Ironing…with some steampunk, post-Industrial Revolution version of an electric iron, a leftover from the earliest Bunker days. It was plugged into a wall socket and hissed like a contemporaneous steam locomotive, chugging back and forth on an equally ancient ironing board under the pull and push of Dean’s gun hand.

And next to the singing Hunter, neatly folded at the foot of his bed’s precious memory foam mattress, was a plump stack of freshly pressed napkins, sheets, pillowcases…and underwear. Dean was ironing bed linen and unmentionables. Cheerfully.

A spray bottle sat at the edge of the ironing board. Sam watched as Dean picked it up and expertly misted the pillowcase. And the scent of lavender and thyme hung in the air.

Sam’s otherwise reliable Giant Brain tripped and fell into an alternative universe. He instantly conjured a warped subspecies of sex pollen that compelled Hunters to iron the hems of dainties. Or was Sam in a Djinn-induced dream of domesticity, a desire buried in the deepest Mariana Trench of his subconscious?

To be clear, both Sam and Dean were taught by their ex-Marine father to competently wield an iron, being a skill one needs in the military to impress boot camp drill sergeants during surprise inspections. And to pass as disciplined law enforcement in front of hometown deputies and coroners.

The boys had been known to arm wrestle over who had first dibs on the lone, working motel iron in order to press crisp creases into faux FBI-CIA-Interpol-Secret Service-TSA suit pants and shirt collars.

But never pillowcases. And never underwear. And never using scented water in a mister. Dean was crossing some line that Sam had never considered before. Now he knew.

Dean was ironing boxer shorts and damask napkins. But, Dean was singing. Dean was happy.

This might work, thought Sam.

Dean never heard his brother pussyfoot back to his own room, sans bowl of cut fruit and fermented dairy and a rinse off in the showers. Sam stripped, pulled on sweatpants and an old college football t-shirt he found at a thrift store in College Station, Texas, and tucked himself into his California King-sized bed.

Sam never said a word about what he glimpsed, even after the Mark was removed, because Sam discovered that slipping into ironed sheets smelling of herbs and flowers was…what was the word? Oh, that’s right… _nice._

That night was the first time since Dean took on the Mark that Sam experienced no nightmares. A good night’s sleep.

\-----

Dean loved to eat and loved to cook, so it was inevitable that he would turn his attention to the culinary arts, once there was nothing left in the Bunker to clean, polish, iron, or fold. He soaked up the Food Channel and skimmed dozens of foodie blogs. But the kitchen, even though better than 99% of what the brothers had known on the road, was equipped for a 1950s-era, ancestral version of _The French Chef._ Dean wanted more.

And Sam was willing to indulge him, now that they had a source of legal cash. Sam, Dean, and Castiel had started to search and document the contents of the Bunker for liquid assets, which meant antique collectibles. Sam described the marketing process as finding obsessive-compulsive buyers with wads of disposable income for rare books (without supernatural baggage), furniture circa 1850 to 1955, prehistoric electronics, and the garage full of cars.

Castiel used traces of his weakening Mojo to double check for any potential curses, screaming heebee jeebees, or trailing remains of entities that might infect what they sold, sweeping them clean as if he was selling an old laptop or smart phone.

At Sam’s insistence, the first artifact they sold would be one of the vintage automobiles.

“We need enough profit to make the effort worth our time,” he said.

Dean pouted for a couple of days and then picked something French that he hated on principle (a Citroen Traction Avant, pre WWII).

Sam was stunned at the six-figure bids listed in auction house records.

The eager buyer, a collector from Chicago whom they found in an online chat room, told the Hunters and Angel that often, with older cars, provenance was dicey, but certainly having an authenticated title would save time applying for insurance and registering the car back in Illinois.The title was on file in the name of Henry Winchester. With long-distance help from Charlie, Sam tweaked the hard copy and a web-based digitized record, transferring the ownership to Dean.

The buyer didn’t look too closely at the paperwork when he arrived in Kansas. Acted as if he suspected something was a little fishy. And didn’t care.

But the large, stone-faced man who accompanied him, dressed in jeans and a sport jacket over a tight t-shirt to show off impressive muscles, did care. He scrutinized law enforcement lists of stolen vehicles as well as climbing over and under the car with a flashlight and screwdriver–the buyer held his jacket–while searching for evidence of filed down or bogus registration numbers, modern replacement parts, and hidden pockets of corrosion.

At first, Sam and Dean thought the thug was the buyer’s hired muscle. Turned out to be his over-protective corporate financial officer, an MBA from Wharton and a car guru in his own right. He demanded to come along to inspect the paperwork and look under the hood, knowing his besotted CEO would neglect basic due diligence.

The sale took place on Main Street in Lebanon’s town square–in a very public exchange on the sidewalk in front of the post office. A few friendly witnesses looked on, including a Hunter-savvy local cop, ready to offer support if the Chicago buyers turned out to be bogus. The buyer’s associate handed the brothers six figures worth of thick, bound stacks of crisp new hundreds from a large wheeled metal case. Looked bulletproof to Team Free Will’s experienced eyes.

Castiel and Sam removed the paper collars from the greenbacks and, in turn, they handed the unwrapped money to a bank teller on lunch break, She sat at a card table under a sidewalk awning and ran the currency through a borrowed bill counter. Received a generous tip for her trouble with a whispered reminder not to report the exchange to anyone official.  
  
She, in turn, encouraged Sam to deposit the money in her bank. Like right now.  
  
He declined politely, neatly lined up the bills on the table, and then placed the booty in a small steamer trunk, which once safely carried estate jewelry and cursed objects across the Atlantic on luxury ocean liners. It was warded with protection sigils against sticky demon fingers and outfitted with a modern alarm system.

Belt and suspenders, agreed the brothers. Belt and suspenders.

The buyer swooned when he turned the key on his new purchase and heard the results of Dean’s expert tuning. Drove the car up a portable ramp and into a waiting transport truck. Waved and waved as he and his companion drove off.

\-----

Team Free Will became _Hunters Who Shop_ starring _The Hunter Who Chopped and Baked and Steamed and Sauced._ And everybody ate the best meals of their lives, fueled by a six-figure budget, which blew the usually ultra-frugal Hunter’s mind.

It all sounded like a good idea at the time. No, make that a great idea. And Castiel, who should have known better, thought Dean’s new direction might...might be enough to return him to a sustainable normal. Maybe even an improved version?

Sam tried to explain to Dean that the money they scored from the car was not just for his cooking budget, but Castiel shushed him.

“We always can sell another car,” the Angel said. “Or some of the smaller treasures. I don’t think the Mark likes ‘happy’. That’s good for Dean, right?”

He employed his trademark air quotes.  
  
“Yeah,” said Sam, watching his giddy brother thumb through the world’s largest stack of culinary-related mail order catalogs.

“Whatever it takes.”

\-----

Dean created a detailed inventory of the Bunker’s kitchen supplies. It was a management skill he and Sam had perfected after years of keeping track of a museum’s worth of dangerous weapons and artifacts, which had to be maintained and moved nightly from one sketchy motel to another, most often at early dawn. (When they landed at the Bunker, they luxuriated in its locked and warded chests and pantries.)

Then, using his newly acquired knowledge of gastronomy, based in part by studying back issues of _Cook’s Illustrated_ with the same intensity he used to crack open the most obscure cases involving pre-Mesopotamian Lore, Dean began to build the _Dean Master Wish List_ to fill in the gaps _._ Kitchen gadgets. State-of-the art appliances. Herbs and spices. Pantry staples and specialty foods.

His list numbered a dozen pages. He insisted on writing it out by hand in his surprisingly neat, small (and girly) cursive in a blank, hand-bound journal with sewn signatures that he discovered in a Bunker storeroom. It was crafted of dyed goat leather and laid paper. 19th century. As much a work of art as the Impala. Sam bought him a fountain pen, excuse me, _a writing instrument,_ the kind rich lawyers use, as a celebratory gift. And three colors of ink.

On their first trip to civilization, aka the greater Kansas City, Kansas and Missouri metroplex, the team took two cars; even the Impala’s spacious trunk was deemed insufficient to hold a warehouse pallet-sized order of the cooking utensils, small appliances, and gourmet ingredients that Dean planned to acquire each visit. An old Woodie station wagon in mint condition was requisitioned from the Bunker’s remaining stable of classics.

Sam was delighted to drive the beast; its cab could accommodate his Sasquatch height (unlike the Impala, but don’t say anything to Dean or Baby) and drew admiring honks from passing cars on U.S. 36. Castiel rode shotgun with Dean.

Since a round trip between Lebanon and KC/KS/MO was eight hours if they were not trying to break the sound barrier, the team developed the habit of driving into the suburbs in the late afternoon, staying at a nicer motel off a main highway, hitting the stores the next day when they opened at 9 or 10 am, and getting back on the road by 2 pm. Dean insisted they pay cash from their well-stocked trove, so they could return to the same shops for more loot. (No stolen credit card identities to raise flags at the cash register.)

Sam and Castiel were pleased that Dean’s passion for the right cheese grater and the right brand of French sea salt was pulling his attention from the Mark. Castiel’s theory was that Dean new obsession was moving his Calling–one name for a human’s version of Angelic Grace–away from the Mark’s influence and diminishing the amount of energy (time and attention) he was putting into the First Curse and its implications.

Castiel was right. The Mark did not like “happy”.

Ironically, Dean’s love of food and cooking was starving the Mark and reducing its power over him, albeit temporarily. But would it be enough? And for how long?

The first trip was a big success in every sense of the word. Unloading the two vehicles took an afternoon. Rearranging the kitchen to Dean’s satisfaction took him a week. 

And Dean rolled up his sleeves and got to work. His evolution of knowledge and ability that took him weeks in Wincester time, which translated into days by the civilian human clock.

Balthazar and Gabriel and Crowley and Bela and Pamela, hedonists all, would have given a great deal to sit at Dean’s table in those halcyon days. The Hunter went from higher order mac and cheese dishes created with a good store-bought imported pasta and a very good Cabot, Vermont cheddar, to making his own ravioli stuffed with ground lamb, mint leaves, and slivers of garlic in a creamy almond sauce spiked with cumin, to visiting Kansas dairy goat farms as the first step towards making cheese. And grinding organic Turkey Hard Red Winter Wheat for pasta and artisan bread.

The psychic noise from the Mark was muted: the murmur of a distant ocean or rain on a sleep-in Saturday morning.

\-----

A note about love:

Food made right is _Pure Love:_ one of the world’s oldest magic spells and one of the most reliable. Love permeated the cheap filling comfort food that little De made over illegal hot plates for littler Sammy–canned tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches and mac and cheese and scrambled eggs–and Lucky Charms and peanut butter on crackers and way too much candy.

The chipped plastic bowls and paper plates filled with snack foods snatched from gas stations vibrated on the astral plane with the _Love_ that resonated between the boys.

Gives you a clue about why Dean’s being immersed in taking care of the people he loved caused the Mark to hide, at least for the time being. Pretty awesome considering what we know now about the power It held.

\---------

So, Dean cooked, and Grown-Up Brother Sam and Angel Castiel ate.

Castiel found out that less Grace and a lower Angelic Elite Status meant the food molecules could interact more easily with Jimmy’s taste buds. He learned why even atheists considered the possibility of Intelligent Design, not through Revelation and Salvation, but with gratitude towards the miracles of chocolate chip cookies and slow-smoked Texas BBQ ribs and fresh steamed sweet corn with home-churned butter. And ice cream. And pie.

The day Dean learned to make a flaky pie crust, the Heavenly Choir sang in his honor. And it was on the menu at Chez Dean’s three times a day.

For Castiel, the Dean’s Cooking Era was one of discovery. He learned that food was not just about flavor, such as the subtleties of a pizza pie made with four kinds of cheeses or why fruit always needed to be the first ingredient in any store-bought jam.

It was the aroma of fresh crushed garlic as it wept slowly without browning in a barely warm fry pan whose bottom was coated with a better olive oil.

Or how cold-pressed apple cider–which Dean made in small batches as a tasty substitute for liquor–simmering in a pot where whole cloves and cinnamon sticks floated could evoke holiday memories that still clung to Jimmy’s vessel. And made Castiel, Warrior Angel, smile.

Yes, the Bunker was now home to a cider press. About time, Dean thought, after the first pressing was savored. How did he live this long without his own cider press?

Castiel used to find Dean’s reluctance to share his hot wings at that questionable dive they frequented in Lawrence puzzling, but then he found himself possessively hunched over a broad, flat bowl filled with chicken masala and pecan rice.

"Mine," scowled the Angel. "Mine

He also discovered what the phrase “mouth feel” meant and why the word “rich” in the context of eating frozen peach custard, heavy with egg yolks and cream, equaled filling your mouth with Heavenly Kisses.

And then there was the time when Sam and Castiel judged that Dean was stable enough for them to leave him alone in the bunker while they traveled together on a case from Jody in the Badlands. Came home three days later and learned Dean had barely slept. Like a black-and-white television-era Mad Scientist, he had worked day and night on perfecting his already very good bacon cheeseburgers.

The welcome-home meal of Burgers 2.0 and Yukon Gold steak fries and three-berry shortcake with hand-whipped cream converted Sam, albeit temporarily, to carnivore status and had brought tears of joy to the eyes of a stunned Angel.

Better than the memory of the burgers that Famine seduced and subdued him with years before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Linden educated me about how the brothers would be able to pay for what they wanted from the treasure house that was the Bunker. Thanks again.


	3. Sam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Mark wakes up. Sam gets to play a young Theodore Roosevelt. Dean drives a getaway car. Castiel has had enough.

Sam marveled at fire-roasted heirloom tomatoes and hand-stirred paella and rice flour cookies as fine as lace. And his brother was making his own crackers. Who does that? And grinding his own sesame seeds for his own tahini for his own hummus. Wow. And the crackers, which he baked in a wood stove he rigged in the Bunker’s aboveground garden/patio tasted mighty good smeared with lemony-garlicky hummus, sprinkled with kosher salt.

Sam no longer looked gaunt as he built back muscle with buttery roast chicken and Szechuan-spiced tofu and Arctic char grilled on cedar planks with herbs Dean was growing in a cold frame he set up on the roof patio. And lentils sauced with coconut cream.

He smiled at Dean’s clucking as he ate plates of root vegetables roasted sweet and brown. And buffalo burgers, grilled medium rare, with jalapeno bacon and jack cheese. And homemade ketchup. Sam was stunned when Dean showed him in a blind taste test that good ketchup became great with a better quality of cinnamon.

At some point, as Sam became physically healthier, something loosened in his chest.

He had been holding on, shielding himself from being overwhelmed by the negative emotions leaking out from the Mark across several different planes of existence. The conscious anguish of what his brother was going through. The invasion of his dreams. The seductive poison of demon blood permeating his soul. Shadow puppets from his time in the cage, flitting across his memory. The things he did when he was soulless. The remembered pain of the trials to close the _Gates of Hell_ permanently.

Sam felt and looked better; the protective wall around his soul was dissipating. He recognized a sense of freedom, a lessening of the weight of the fear for his brother's well-being.

But, at the same time that Dean discovered a way to displace the direction and flow of the Mark’s immense power, Sam had been lulled into lowering his emotional barriers because he thought the Mark was more under control. It had been weeks since an Incident involving Dean trying to kill someone for…well, it wouldn’t matter the alleged reasons. Dean and Sam were both sleeping better. Fewer nightmares and headaches. Castiel was reported a statistical dip in things trying to break into the Bunker.

And the Mark bided Its time. It was parasitic and sentient by nature, and now It decided It had found another host to infect.

\-----

The final trip started off innocently.

The team had become regulars at several high-end cooking stores. Dean, or perhaps the Mark, or both, was insatiable. Castiel and Sam were amazed at the variety of precision tools available to the serious home cook, many with roots centuries old. After one trip, Dean presented Sam with a shopping bag filled with gadgets for the making of awesome salads, including three sets of distinct tools for extracting juice from lemons, limes, and rosy-fleshed blood oranges.

And once Dean discovered Fiestaware…he was lost. He remembered that his mother loved the clunky, indestructible dishes. One trip was devoted to ensuring that the Bunker had enough Gusto Bowls (all trademarks reserved), meaning one in every available color.

Enough, said Castiel, to supply his old garrison.

Although the Hunters and Angel owned an impressive stockpile of weapons, none of their blades would work for Dean’s transformation into Chef Winchester. It was pretty cool, in a pinch, to dismember a golden brown roast turkey with an enchanted sword that had served a Knight of the Round Table. (Castiel’s vessel turned white, and the Angel was heard to whimper when Dean casually suggested that the _First Blade_ might make a good instrument for splitting coconuts and hulling walnuts.)

Dean was convinced that an upscale foodie boutique in suburban Johnson County, which advertised a specialty in cutlery, was the best answer.

They took Baby. Dean drove, Sam curled up in shotgun seat and napped, as was his custom, and Cas sat contently in the back, monitoring Dean’s vitals with his failing Grace. He should have been paying better attention to Sam.

They stayed the night in a business suite at a mid-chain motel, and drove 30 minutes to the store after breakfast in their room, supplied by a resourceful Dean. Parked in the back of the Mall in case they needed the loading doc. With their plump budget, Dean approached shopping like he used to handle drinking: Consume until you pass out.

\-----

Trouble manifested in the form of three Kansas-bred sorority sisters, besties since junior high school. Dean later decided that the soon-to-be trophy wives were Harpies-in-Training. They were blonde junior high-society luminaries, buying time before their formal engagements to up-and-coming Boy Kings of Corporate Hell, which would signal the beginning of an 18-month planning period for their triple nuptials.

Their young men were freshly minted MBAs from KSU– fraternity brothers who were climbing the institutional cliff face at a mid-America Agri-Behemoth. They were substitute Ken Dolls in the girls’ idealized Barbie weddings: not as well dressed, but with better parts.

It was just before the Thanksgiving rush, and the bottle blonde gal pals had finished their sales training, having been flown to corporate headquarters in Dallas for a two-week immersion in the world of roasted hazelnut oil, antique silver food pushers, and $1,000 sous-vide circulating machines.

The women were dressed in identical Dresden Blue pinafores over white tailored blouses and full, peasant-cut skirts, printed with floral patterns pulled from the eponymously named porcelain. They sighed, pursed their lips, and rolled their eyes in unison when Team Free Will arrived. They made a show of turning their backs to the men, buffing their nails, and checking their make-up in mirrored compacts they kept in the pockets of those too-adorable smocks.

At first, Dean and Sam were oblivious. Part of their Hunter camouflage was built on the way people in the working classes tend to be invisible to the rest of the world. So, they liked being in stealth mode.

When the clerks realized that the men were ignoring their snubs, they deigned to notice our heroes. They audibly sniffed at the brothers’ Army surplus fashion statements and the Angel’s worn trench coat. They asked three times if the men could afford the expensive goodies Dean was pulling from the shelves and tossing into his shopping basket.

Warned the stoic Castiel away from the breakables even though he was standing quietly with his hands in his pockets, scanning the area for threats that might catalyze the Mark’s fury. (Unfortunately, he was protecting the wrong brother.)

The socialites whispered and giggled to each other behind their fanned hands, imitating the mock modesty of Caucasian ingénues playing movie geishas. Pretty much a technique they had perfected by the age of 13, meant to diminish the self-esteem of lower status interlopers at cafeteria tables in high school and college. Didn’t work so well with grown-ups who had killed supernatural creatures with their bare hands.

Castiel and Sam tried to engage them as Dean placed the first basket on the counter and went back for a second basket and a run at the display of blades. But the young women pointedly (excuse the pun) ignored Sam’s polite request for their help translating the poorly written instructions on an ice cream maker’s packaging. Dismissed Castiel’s inquiry regarding the use of Key limes and Meyer lemons in pie fillings and fruit ades with the abrupt response that they were both the same, horrifying the newly hatched Angelic foodie.

“I beg your pardon,” Castiel huffed. “They are not the same."

“Whatever,” Bottle Blonde #1 said, waving her hand in dismissal.

Castiel had seen _Pretty Woman_ , _Selena, and Man of Steel_ multiple times. (Dean insisted that the Angel needed to watch movies the real way–with hot buttered popcorn and greasy salt-and-pepper potato chips and soft drinks bottled in Mexico with cane sugar–not access them only from the giant warehouse of data Metatron had downloaded into his Angelic memory.)

The Angel immediately recognized the film tropes of _Snobby Shopkeepers_ and _Mean Girls_ and _Clueless Bullies Who Don’t Know They’re Messing with Money, Fame, Natural Class, and/or Superman_. Castiel had learned to anticipate that the appearance of the Bully in a film signaled capstone scenes of amusing and emotionally satisfying revenge.

If his Grace had not been in tatters, Castiel would have considered a minor smiting. Instead, he used what he had come to realize was his _Number Three Weapon_ after his _Angelic Mojo_ and _Blade:_ He _Stared_. But the clerks were immune, being majorly adept at self-absorption.

Dean was too focused on the displays in the Wide World of Matching Steak Knives to notice the soap opera playing out by the cash register.

\-----

The Mark tingled surrounded by so many sharp edges and pulsed with anticipation when Dean turned his attention to the display of Japanese boning knives and meat cleavers. But, if It indeed was sentient­–still debatable after everything that happened later in the Mark’s story–It welcomed the brief hiatus from Dean’s 24/7 role as guardian. While Dean looked at knives, the Mark was attuned to new quarry.

If we could have seen the Mark’s aura at this moment (it was tucked away in other dimensions almost all of the time as are the true faces of Demons and the wings and celestial wavelengths of Angels), it would have looked just like the muzzle of an apex predator sniffing the air for traces of a vulnerable meal from miles away. A Kodiak perhaps, _Ursus arctos middendorffi,_ weaving its snout in the same deadly rhythms as in a King Cobra’s dance. Enchanting its prey, according to folklore.

And Sam was the prey.

\-----

Sam usually was the diplomat of the Free Will trio. He lacked the brash, feet-first energy of his older brother and the just-landed-take-me-to-your-leader awkwardness of the Angel. He had a sweet demeanor, mannerly and even acquiescent, when he wasn’t soulless or possessed or high on demon blood or hell-bent on saving his brother or family or the whole of humanity (or stray doggies) from Hell or worse.

And it says something that Sam, Dean, Castiel, and their extended family of Hunters, Talismen, and even monsters, know firsthand there are worst things than Hell.

Most people don’t realize that Stanford University is harder to get into than the traditional East Coast Ivy League schools. Sam had not “settled for almost as good,” so he was comfortable donning his benevolent _nobles oblige_ Palo Alto personality with no apologies: confident, at ease, conscious of his status but not superior, nope, not a bit. How he upped his game imitating a suit trained at Quantico.

And he had a childhood role model to inspire him.

Even as a little boy he secretly loved the well-used television Western plot (thank you, Warner Brothers, for repurposing identical scripts for multiple television series and brain-washing a generation into thinking that bad writing, because it was familiar, was actually Mythic Lore) of the Well-Bred Eastern Tinhorn, with wire-rimmed glasses, riding into town with a funny accent and funny clothes, and being really nice to everyone, and then beating up the Town Bully in a fair fight, and then revealing that he had been a scrawny kid with asthma and picked on, which is why he got himself a boxing coach.

And scrolling text at the end of the episode would tell the viewer–surprise–that the tinhorn was going to become President of the United States someday. (Sam thought Theodore Roosevelt would have been a great Hunter.)

Even Dean didn’t know the impact of the familiar 1950s TV tale on Sammy, replayed as a plot on a half-dozen Western series.

Sammy wanted to be that covert hero, his version of Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne. Underestimated.

Meanwhile, the girls were insufferable. Such a little thing compared to the Apocalypse and the Croatoan Virus and yet, Sam was not content to step back and simply wait them out until he had the satisfaction of waving a roll of twenties under their collective, artfully sculpted noses.

Sam was hard-wired to _Protect Dean At All Costs,_ even against benign snootery. Add lingering sleep deprivation and his frustration at not being able to find a cure for the Mark, and the women’s snubbings had him primed.

And he was not on High Alert, having being lulled by weeks of Dean’s good behavior and stuffed that morning with his brother’s corn muffins speckled with a medley of his favorite vegetables, which Dean christened Sam’s Muffins, heated up in the motel room’s microwave. There was freshly squeezed orange juice, poached eggs, and almond butter and homemade wild sandhill plum jam on toasted oatmeal crackers.  
  
Dean now travelled with picnic baskets the way he used to pack guns and ammo. Only the best.

The Mark reached out a tendril and tentatively poked at the younger Hunter, drawn by the traces of his dark history. Neither Dean, mesmerized by the cutting tools, nor Castiel, trying to have a conversation with the clerks, noticed that Sam’s eyes flickered black, just for an instant. His anti-possession tattoo was useless against the Mark's archaic strength.

Sam’s energy shifted. He paused, taking in the scene. His good Angel friend, ancient and naïve, trying to help. His precious brother, allowed a brief respite from the Mark’s evil twins: bottomless dread and unquenchable blood lust.

The young ladies, cocooned in privilege and the narcosis of dull lives and duller imaginations. They needed to be taught a lesson. The path seemed obvious, clearer than it had been in weeks. Sam was at the ready, feeling more confident, actually more powerful than he had since his soulless days.

He shed two layers of flannel shirts, revealing a treasured Stanford tee, long ago made sleeveless to take advantage of the California sun, and kilometers of golden skin and smooth, taut, muscle. Sam still was leaner than Jody’s motherly eye preferred, but Dean’s meals were doing a credible job of building back his impressive physique.

He sweetly asked the Mean Girls if the knife display had products available for testing.

“Testing?” the tallest one asked, somewhat mollified by the status indicated by the logo on the red muscle shirt, the breath-catching dimples, the shifting colors of his fox eyes, and the perfect Sam Smile. And the Winchester Abs, rippling beneath his shirt like the forewarning of a tsunami under an otherwise silent ocean surface.

“Yes, which knives might I try out?” said Sam. “You know, to heft them?” He cupped his hands and let them drop a few inches as if he was weighing melons manually and deciding which one to buy.

The three clerks swallowed and licked their lips in unison.

“The ones…over there,” said the shortest woman with the biggest hair-do. “Anything that is not boxed up."

She pointed to the wooden wall where Dean, and the Mark, were mesmerized by so many sharp objects in so many shapes and sizes. Magnets and elastic cords held the knives against the display.

Sam smiled his thanks and walked slowly towards Dean, rolling his hips like a gunfighter in high-heeled cowboy boots. A sexier John Wayne.

The girls were mesmerized.

Castiel, who had been dismayed that his best glares had no effect against the self-referential universe of narcissistic personality disorder, joined the brothers.

Dean was a true craftsman and in part loved cooking because he loved fine tools. He was zoned out staring at the cutlery wall as he mentally compared size and weight, deciding what he needed versus what he wanted.

Lost in imagining the better knife display he could build that copied museum mounts rather than magnetic bands and wooden knife holders. He and Sam had stolen enough artifacts from some of the best cultural museums in North America to have seen what works best to hold, protect, and show off blades of all sizes.  
  
Like most artists when they are in the design stage of their creations, he was oblivious to what was going on around him, a rare state for the perpetually paranoid Hunter.  
  
Maybe this was what normal feels like. Safe. Like the stray cat coaxed into accepting the gift of a loving home. One day she sleeps upside down, totally vulnerable, and when her human gently pets her soft, furry belly, she stretches, purrs, and goes back to sleep without opening her eyes.

Sam, keeping track of Dean, handed the Angel his shirts. The tall Hunter flexed stiff muscles and shot a smile at the clerks, who were now giving him their full consideration.

Sam stepped up and plucked a half-dozen knives from the display. They snugged across the palm of one giant hand. The tall Hunter stared over the clerks’ shoulders several yards away, noting the wood paneling behind the checkout counter.

Castiel figured it out first. If Dean was comic-book hero Batman, Sam was Superman in any one of the Angel’s favorite film franchises, dealing with the clueless bullies.

“Sam, no. No Sam,” the Angel said, as if the young Hunter was a large, disobedient dog, with as much effect.

Sam swiveled. A long novelty knife, meant to wrangle meat on a hot grill, flew across the store, approached escape velocity, and hit the wall, plunging in up to the knife’s ornate guard. That felt good, thought the former Vessel of Lucifer, and he flung another blade. And another. And another. And when he ran out he reached more. The Mark’s aura ghosted under his skin, and he felt the equivalent of a shot of Irish coffee hit his brain, if that shot had the energy of Dean’s beloved Colt.

At first, the trios of BFFs didn’t know what was happening. They had no point of reference, no context, for the sound of expensive steel being flung, between heartbeats, into wood paneling and drywall. Kind of like whitetail deer leaping across a modern highway and not understanding the speed of the oncoming cars. Ruminant brains have trouble registering an object hurling at them at 70 mph.

Until the Mean Girls figured it out. And screamed. And screamed And hit the alarm button, not knowing that the security guard was an unauthorized smoke break in the front parking lot a goodly twenty feet from the mall’s front door.

Sam smiled at the clerks with his best impression of the Morningstar, flirty and hungry and homicidal. And still they screamed. And still Sam peppered the wall with thousands of dollars worth of kitchen blades, as sharp and deadly as those in the arsenal back in the Bunker.

Dean, in his Mark Loves Cutlery Fugue State, took an extra beat to figure out What the Hell, Sammy and went into a Confused Protective Big Brother State and came to the plausible conclusion that the three blonde girls were, indeed, monsters, or worse yet, witches. (Not far off, Dean. Just by one consonant.)

By the time mall security arrived, the brothers and Angel had disappeared through the delivery door, which backed up against the mall’s loading docks, close to where the Impala was parked. They left the roll of twenties Sam was carrying plus the roll of hundreds Dean had thought he cleverly hid in the inside pocket of his canvas jacket, the same place he had been hiding his extra walking-around money for 20 years.

They zipped home in three hours. Baby was warded against Smokies and LEOs and levitated the last hour, just for the fun of it. Dean drove, Castiel stiffly sat shotgun, and Sam pouted in the back seat, still vibrating with anger. The Mark smirked.

Sam and Dean went to bed. And Castiel called a friend in Lebanon, and asked for help.

_tbc_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not meant to be a cliffhanger. A prologue to Hobo and Karma, which will start posting before the end of the year.
> 
> Inspired by a real event involving a snooty sales clerk at an upscale kitchen store in a fancy mall. She implied that yours truly in old jeans and an older t-shirt could not afford to shop there. 
> 
> I am not ashamed to say that I waved my Gold Card in her face and said in my best Julia Roberts imitation, “Oh, so you don’t take American Express?” Trying to sound puzzled and oh so innocent, and then I walked out. (Smile). Went to the friendly kitchen place in the neighborhood and bought lots. Lots.
> 
> \-----
> 
> The Theodore Roosevelt trope occurred in many Westerns in the 1950s and 1960s on American television. A spot of truth to it. And the Warner Brothers studio was notorious for reusing the same scripts, with minor changes, among their stable of Western and mystery shows.

**Author's Note:**

> Own nothing; rely on the kindness of strangers.
> 
> Kudos and comments appreciated - thank you.


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